Fate and Destiny
by Scribbler
Summary: AU:In the future, Izzy Izumi finds himself suddenly and unwillingly embroiled in a mystery that could threaten both his life and the lives of others. Somehow he must master his new abilities, but can he evade the secretive Dr. Oikawa long enough to do so?
1. Chapter One ~ "When Time Moves Slowly"

DISCLAIMER AND LEGAL STUFF: Digimon: Digital Monsters and its universes are not mine; they are the property of Toei, Saban and Bandai. I've simply distorted them for my own evilishly evil designs, (bwa ha ha ha haaa! Ahem.) This fic is AU, so be warned. The inspiration for it will become clear later on. So blatantly so that I'm not even going to mention it here, as it would totally spoil the plot at this stage. Any plagiarizing will severely displease me, so also be warned on this front. An angry Scribbler is a dangerous Scribbler.   
  
AUTHORS' NOTES: I'm back. As promised, here is the fic I said I'd release absolutely *months* ago. I'm really sorry it took so long, but I made that promise in good faith (or at least, before I got completely buried in coursework!) As it is, this is still a work in progress at the moment, but I figured I might as well release it anyway to see people's reaction. Please be nice. PLEASE!!!! I'm currently working on several different fics at once, so updates may be a little slow. To make them go faster, please review this and my other fics too. More reviews=happy Scribbler=more worky=more updates. See, there is logic in there somewhere.  
  
___________________  
  
March 2002  
___________________  
  
"Fate and Destiny" By Scribbler  
Chapter One ~ "When Time Moves Slowly"  
  
___________________  
  
We are condemned to kill time, thus we die bit by bit. -- Octavio Paz  
  
___________________  
  
  
Sherlock Holmes laid on his back, staring at the stars, a thoughtful expression playing about his face. He'd been this way for some time now, the same pensive look gracing his aging features throughout. Around him, the grassy knoll on which he rested had taken on an almost ethereal air beneath the light of the moon, which hung satiated and bulbous against the rich, dark backdrop of the night-sky.  
  
His clothes making a loud rustling in the silence that only the light of a full moon can create, Holmes rolled over and tried to wake his sleeping companion. The bundle next to him only gave a low groan, however, and curled up into an even tighter ball as a result. Holmes' expression switched to one of slight annoyance, and his nudges suddenly became a lot less gentle. With a snort, the figure beside him jolted back to reality with a bump.  
  
Holmes whispered conspiratally, his tone somewhat introspective and brooding. "Doctor Izumi, can you do me a favour? Look straight up and tell me, what do you see?"  
  
His redhead companion blinked, driving slumber from his dark eyes and attempting to focus on what the older man said. "What do I see?" He repeated, and then hurried on, not wishing to look like he was procrastinating. "Well.... I see stars, Holmes. Billions and billions of stars."  
  
Doctor Izumi sensed this wasn't the answer his friend was looking for. Then, suddenly, an idea struck him. He smiled complacently, smug in the knowledge that may finally be able to demonstrate his intellect in the presence of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes, without being upstaged by his comrade. The boy only wished there could have been others to witness it instead of merely the detective and himself.  
  
"When you think about it, it makes one feel rather insignificant, really. I mean, if there are billions of stars out there, then surely somewhere, somehow, there are other suns like ours. And if there are other suns, then surely there must be other solar systems too. And if there are both suns and solar systems, then maybe there might be life out there as well. Who knows? Perhaps there may be sentient life forms - like humans. And if there are creatures like these, then what's to stop them from maybe being more intelligent and technologically advanced than we are? For all we know, they could easily be on their way here right now, at this very moment, preparing to conquer and enslave the entire of mankind! They may be about to make all homo-sapiens number one on the menu when they turn Earth into a giant restaurant for their huge, pustule-encrusted leaders, and there wouldn't be a thing that we - or anybody else for that matter - could do to stop them! So, when one considers the possibilities, if one looks up into the heavens at eventide, then one may actually be looking upon a portent of their own doom at the hands of extraterrestrial creatures!"  
  
Silence followed this little outburst, and after a few minutes of this Doctor Izumi began to wonder whether Holmes had even acknowledged what he'd said. Perhaps I've finally done it! The younger boy thought hopefully. Perhaps I've actually got one over on him. Maybe Sherlock's having a hard time keeping up with my razor sharp wit! Maybe....  
  
However, the elderly gentleman then decided to turn over to look at his younger companion. A vaguely disparaging expression hovered about his visage, but when he spoke his voice was smooth, filled with the trademark ennui for which he was so famous.  
  
"Well done, Izumi. But I'm afraid you're completely wrong."  
  
"What?" The red haired male was incredulous. "But.... but I've done everything you ever taught me to do. I looked for the evidence, hypothesized and dictated my hypotheses accordingly. What could I possibly have done wrong?"  
  
"Izumi, you did very well in what you observed. However, you failed to discern the most important aspect of your hypotheses." Replied Holmes in a gratingly dispassionate manner. Izumi's blood boiled at this.  
  
"And what might that be?" He gritted, trying hard not to snap at his blasé cohort. The older man looked at his neo counterpart, eyes full of a kind of pity mixed with antipathy at his ignorance.  
  
"Izumi, somebody's stolen our tent."  
___________________  
  
With a cough and an ungracious amount of snorting, Izzy Izumi returned to the land of the waking with a jerk. Such a jerk, in fact, that he tumbled off the edge of the bed - which he was balanced precariously on - to land in an unceremonious heap on his bedroom floor. The teenage boy struggled for a moment, a mass of flailing limbs and duvet covers, before finally extricating himself from the ensnaring swathes, red-faced and breathless. He paused for a second, as if trying to remember where he was. All at once, an expression of sleepy comprehension spread across his pale face, and he blew a stray lock of unruly red hair from his eyes in an attempt to restore some amount of normality to his actions.   
  
It was just a dream, he silently perceived. The inside of his mouth felt somewhat like an ashtray, and he swallowed several times in an attempt to disperse the unwanted flavour. I really shouldn't have had that cheese sandwich before I went to bed.  
  
A large yawn proceeded to stretch Izzy's mouth to gigantic proportions, indicating that, while his brain was awake, his body wasn't so ready to return to the world yet. Slowly and deliberately, the boy extracted himself from the chaotic bedclothes, returning them haphazardly to the mattress with a quick heave. His body followed suit, flopping down with a tired sigh atop the quilt. He was too hot to bother climbing under them, which was fairly ironic since it was mid-November.   
  
For what seemed like hours the insomnia-stricken youth lay there in that position, willing slumber to come claim his weary mind. Yet despite his efforts, he remained firmly fixed in the stifling silence of the night, the odd yawn attacking his features but doing ultimately nothing to alleviate the tiredness that beleaguered him.  
  
Finally, with a sigh, Izzy resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get to sleep any time soon. The thought of making an exodus to the kitchen downstairs briefly crossed his mind, but he immediately rejected the idea, both because he didn't particularly want another bizarre dream as the result of ingesting more disagreeable food, and also because he didn't wish to wake either of his parents. One had to pass their door in order to reach the stairs, but the way was littered with creaky floorboards, which seemed to acquire invisible loudspeakers when stepped on at night.  
  
All the rooms in this place creak, the youth mused dumbly to himself, as he traced the contours of the headboard irksomely with his eyes. Even the bathroom squeaks.   
  
It's probably because it's an old house, a sensible voice at the back of his mind surmised. All old buildings have one or two singularities thanks to their age. It's only natural that this one would be the same.  
  
Izzy sighed, conscious that he was having a conversation with a voice in his head. To disperse the idea that the heat was driving him insane, the thin teen crawled off the bed and crept over to the French windows leading out onto his rather spacious loggia. Pushing them gently, he opened the door that had been left ajar earlier that evening, tiptoeing silently out onto the balcony beyond. Draping slender hands over the wrought iron railings, he allowed the cool breeze to gently caress his face and neck, revelling in the mitigating draughtiness upon his perspiration-coated brow.  
  
Peace reigned over the ancient house. A quiescence not usually perceived by the ears of humans, so wrapped up in their own thoughts they miss the tranquillity of the world around them - especially at night. Izzy basked luxuriously in the balmy stillness, inhaling each soothing zephyr as if it were the elixir of life - which is exactly what they seemed like after the intense stuffiness of his bedroom.   
  
He didn't know how long he stood there; such was the relaxing serenity encasing him. But when a rather noxious smell touched the inside of his nostrils the boy was abruptly returned to reality by his outraged snout. Sliding weary eyelids open - which he hadn't even realised were closed - Izzy clapped a hand over his nose and mouth in an attempt to stave off the acrid stench pervading the night air. This did little to help, however, and he coughed slightly as the offensive tang caught in his throat - only stopping when he remembered that his parents' balcony was only a few feet away, and that the window to their bedroom was also ajar.  
  
The red haired teenager cast his dark eyes upwards, tracing the uneven shape of the hill his sprawling house rested adjacent to. Monato Research Centre loomed huge on the horizon, its appearance magnified by the multitude of sparkling stars dotted around it. The ugly building was sheathed in shadow, almost reflecting the disturbing rumours that surrounded the company itself. Izzy shivered inadvertently as his unoccupied mind idly recalled the rumours so flippantly thrown around by his classmates and elders alike.  
  
Monato Research Corp. was a constant hot topic on any grapevine in the entire country. It was true that they dealt with genetic experiments - but after the great scientific uprising this wasn't exactly an unusual occurrence - however, the secretive nature of their work - and the Director himself - lent itself to the mind of any gossip lacking in new fodder. Numerous were the stories of bizarre activities within the huge number of Research Centres throughout the nation, often involving the enigmatic man and his reclusive private life. Most were firmly rooted in fiction, and one had to take a large pinch of salt with any rumour casually flung about as was prone in this scandal-hungry society.   
  
Yet beneath the verbal flab, many people suspected there was a grain of truth attached to the tales of the MRC. The company was well established and highly respected in all scientific rings, but it was common knowledge of the terrible things which had been an adjunct to their rapid rise to glory.  
  
The company itself wasn't very old - at least, not when compared to many of the other esteemed research conglomerates - but had turned out such new and innovative advances during its sixteen-year history that it had overtaken most competitors within the first few years of being established. The vast majority of citizens walking around with bionic limbs, or non-surgical cosmetic treatment, had received it from one or more of the MRC private hospitals, and there was even tell of some forms of cancer-cures spawning from MRC research programmes at centres just like the one overlooking the Izumi household.  
  
Izzy contemplated the intimidating structure through discerning eyes. He didn't believe any of the tales concerning MRC, not that he was ever asked his opinion on such matters. He'd lived here for five months now, and still he was ignored and treated like the new kid at school, to be taunted and sneered at; left to sit alone at lunch, then return to a lonely house afterwards and be disregarded once more by his inattentive parents. Mr. And Mrs. Izumi were so busy with their own careers and social-gathering-filled existences that they had little time for their curious offspring, and most evenings Izzy could be found hunched over his computer completing yet another one of the self-imposed projects he'd created to fill his time. He didn't care though, he'd much rather be dissecting an algorithm or fresh software program then hanging out doing nothing. Or so he told himself.  
  
Secretly, Izzy had always suspected that he'd been an accident. That his parents had never really wanted him. A nanny had been employed to look after him from birth, paid for by his parents' immense salaries, and he'd been subjected to different carers all his fifteen years. Nobody ever really concerned themselves as to what the reticent boy thought of the whole thing, and even if he had spoken out, Izzy doubted anybody would actually heed his words and make any major changes to suit him. But he was used to it. Having two lawyers as parental units, he knew this sort of thing was to be expected, and it was better he just went along with it then cause a fuss. Just like when they'd moved here, to Odaiba. The red haired boy hadn't wanted to leave his old haunts around their previous home, but his mother and father's decision to set up a legal practice at this juncture had overruled his insignificant wishes. Just like always.  
  
  
Another blast of elegant fumes belched from twin titanic chimneys either side of the imposing Centre, and the dark-eyed boy wrinkled his nose at the putrid smell elicited. He still wasn't used to the stench, but he'd barely been accustomed to the noise of the airport next to their preceding dwelling before they left, nor the railway-line at the apartment before that. At least this place compensated by being spacious and sumptuous. Well.... as sumptuous as one can expect from a hundred-year-old house - though he had to admit, the garden was fairly overgrown. No gardener had been employed as of yet, since establishing the new practice had eaten almost all of his parent's time and effort. Izzy idly wondered whether they were even going to bother with such a triviality. It would be more like them to just concrete over the whole thing and have done with it. If they hadn't been so intent on moving immediately they probably would have waited until a more suitable, less neglected house came on the market, but circumstances had dictated they live here at Bluebird Hall, much to Mrs. Izumi's patent disgust.  
  
"It's cold, it's full of damp, and my footprints leave craters in the dust!" She'd exclaimed the moment they arrived. It had taken quite a while for her husband to mollify her enough to even venture into the remaining part of the building, and the chic woman had been quick to fence off most of the construction as uninhabitable.   
  
Izzy heaved a long sigh. It was so lonely out here, away from the rest of the town. Not that he particularly liked Odaiba - in his opinion, it was a rather poky little place full of self-opinionated, unfriendly people - but still, Bluebird Hall was very cut-off. He had to catch three buses just to get into the metropolitan area, then another two to reach the school. Some days he just didn't bother, and returned home as soon as he was sure that his parents would be gone to work. He'd nearly been caught twice, and it always resulted in detention when he couldn't explain his absence. Yet still, he kept doing it. There was nothing for him there; just endless faces which goaded him, then turned away when he tried to be sociable. Even the teachers were foul, using him as a scapegoat and target for their frustration. Ever since the new teaching reforms came in, educators had become veritable bundles of brewing dissatisfaction, and the taciturn new boy provided them with a perfect object on which to vent their resentment. Izzy was thankful that they hadn't reintroduced the cane here. They had at his last school, and he still held a thin scar on his palm where the whip-like rattan had sliced his skin. The red haired youth shuddered as he recalled the expression on the teacher's face when the scarlet line had appeared in the strike's wake. Joy, spreading across his smiling visage like a leering rash, enjoying the schoolboy's unvoiced distress as he struggled to bite his lip against the pain.  
  
Pushing the unwelcome memories away, Izzy straightened up, hearing one or two vertebrae in his spine shift slightly with the movement. He would have drawn in a lungful of air, but the fetid perfume still hung thick and pungent on the slight breeze. Instead, he settled for a quick intake of breath, before retiring back into his bedroom once more with the intention of sleep. He had to rest. School loomed from his contemplations like a gremlin, poking at his psyche and jostling it back into bed. The teenager had skipped going today, but tomorrow he knew that his mother was expecting an important visitor at the house, so there was no chance of his missing another.   
  
Curling up drowsily among the bedclothes, Izzy rested his head against the damp pillow. It was new, just like everything in his room. His mother had been very specific about that. All fresh furniture for the nice new house - at least, until she'd actually seen it for herself. Izzy doubted she'd ever trust an estate agent's opinion again, especially not one called 'Bernard Betterhomes'.   
  
Considerably refreshed by his ephemeral 'jaunt', Izzy instantaneously felt his eyelids drooping, sealing up with bodily fluid ready for the slumber they so desired. A short exhalation escaped his lips unbidden. Hopefully there would be no more weird dreams this time.  
  
The digital clock on the bedside table softly beeped the hour - 4am, but by the time it had finished droning, Izzy was already fast asleep, long shadows enacting graceful ballets across his drawn, uneasy skin.  
___________________  
  
How long has it been now?  
  
A day? Two days? A week?  
  
I don't know.  
  
I don't care either.  
  
There are no clocks here, not that it bothers me. It's quiet without any ticking. There were too many clocks at home. Too much ticking and tocking. You can't measure life in seconds and minutes; you have to measure it in moments. Instances. That's the only way to truly live.   
  
Not that she understands that. To her, life is nothing unless it's on a schedule, written down. Where to go, what to do, whom to see. That just doesn't work for me.  
  
She hates it here. She hated it from the moment we arrived. Not that I blamed her then, I wasn't too keen myself. Our arrival wasn't exactly typical. Or peaceable, for that matter.  
  
I don't remember much, just waiting at the bus stop. She was busy preening herself as usual, bragging about some guy who'd asked her out that day. I wasn't really listening; I'd heard it all before. I knew she'd be bored of him in a week, and be on to the next one. I've long since stopped learning their names; they never last long enough for me to bother.  
  
She didn't seem to notice that I wasn't paying attention, though. I suppose she just wanted someone - anyone - to crow to, whether it be me or somebody she'd never met before. She's like that. People get drawn to her, and listen like they've been her friend all their lives, even if they only met her five minutes previous. She has that effect on people.  
  
Not on me though. I know her too well for that.  
  
I remember a sudden warm pain - like when you move your head too fast and the nerve in your neck gets caught. It felt like it was coming from inside my skull, in the depths of my very brain. It didn't really hurt, but it was uncomfortable, and made me feel sleepy. I recall seeing her holding her temples too, then keeling over onto the sidewalk. There was nobody around for me to call for help - not that I could. In a few seconds, all I knew was darkness.  
  
Then I woke up here. Wherever 'here' is.   
  
She wasn't conscious when I came to. Somebody had laid her on the bed, hair spread out around her like some beautiful corpse. Lovely, even in death.  
  
I'm not sorry to say, I hated her for it.  
  
The room itself isn't so bad. Square, paisley wallpaper, two beds, en suite, one door. What more can I say? It's built for living in, not enjoying. My only complaint is that there aren't any windows. The lone light comes from that naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. Artificial. Stifling. I long for true sunlight every moment of every day, but sometimes I doubt whether I'll ever see it again. Or my friends.... my REAL friends on the outside. Nobody knows what being separated from them is like. Now and then, at night, I just curl up under the blankets they gave us and cry, and cry, and cry. It's as if something's eating away at my soul, gnawing a bit more each instant we're split. I can sense them, calling out to me, but I can't answer. I can't answer from here.   
  
The only other thing is that they put her in here too. She never stops complaining. Her voice haunts me even in sleep, echoing inside my mind until I just want to sit up and scream at her to stop it, to shut up and leave me alone. But I don't, because that's not what I do. I simply stay silent, keeping it all inside until I can go to my safe place and let it all out. My friends understand me. They ease the pain.   
  
But now I can't get to my safe place, my haven. Now I'm trapped here.... with her. Just the two of us in this little room. Isolated.  
  
Well, technically we're not completely alone. Sometimes people come to see us, to bring food and such like. I suppose they must be the people who kidnapped us.   
  
Kidnapped. Such a strange, alien word. It's a word you expect to hear on the TV, or written down in a book, not in real life. Especially not when describing yourself. It's odd. Kind of surreal. Kidnapped. Abduction. Taken prisoner.   
  
They seem quite nice - the kidnappers, I mean. Not at all like I would have expected. At first they would come into the room, try to talk to us, but she wouldn't listen. She never does. She just hurled the tray of food she'd been brought at them, screaming and shouting until they fled. She never was one for the reasonable approach. Just fly off the handle and watch the results - that's her motto. Now they never come in; just push the dishes through the flap in the door then take them back the same way later. Like a prison. A jail where they're the wardens and we're the convicts.  
  
Sometimes I can see their faces through the opening. There's one boy with brown hair that occasionally talks to me, tries to reassure me, maybe even explain what we're doing here, why we were captured. But each time, she hears us - it's hard not to hear things since the room's only a few feet wide - and kicks up a fuss until we stop and he leaves. Then she'll turn over on her bed and face the wall, not speaking to me, until I hear her breathing become slow and regular and know that she's fallen asleep.   
  
I can't sleep without outside noises. At home, I used to always keep the window open so I could at least feel the night air on my skin. It gave me some sort of connection, despite the smog and fumes in the atmosphere. Now I even miss them.   
  
It's dark. Nighttime I imagine, but it's difficult to distinguish day from night in a place where you can't see the sun or moon. The only reason there's no light is that we turned the bulb off. I can hear her across the room, fidgeting and moving around beneath the flimsy coverlets. They're grey too, just like the walls. That was one of the first things she commented on when we first arrived - after she'd finished yelling, that is. Décor is her forte, but that's to be expected, considering her nature. She never sees past the superficial, never looks beyond the apparent. I think most people just attribute that as part of her charm. Just another one of her charismatic singularities, to be giggled at and passed over in favour of other, more favourable qualities.  
  
Not me though.  
  
Oh, God, it feels like I'm dying inside. I think I will soon. Simply shrivel up and fade away, cut off and lonely. I wish I could see the sun once more. I'd hate to die where there isn't any daylight, away from The People. My friends. I know they miss me too, but something's stopping me from answering their sorrow in here. Something I can't distinguish, let alone pierce. A cloying fog around my senses, choking me. Suffocating my link until I can't speak to them anymore.   
  
Just her and me. Alone together in this room. The two of us.  
  
How long has it been now?  
___________________  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: So, what did you think? Good? No good? Please review. I'm a little rusty after all this time, but I'll try not to be bitter about anything. (DIE, FLAMERS!) As usual, here is my plea for illustrations for this and my other works. I'm in the process of getting some web-space, but I won't bother if I don't have anything to flesh it out with. Thanx muchly.  
  
Scribbler -_-;; 


	2. Chapter Two ~ "When An Ally Is Found"

DISCLAIMER AND LEGAL STUFF: Digimon: Digital Monsters and its universes are not mine; they are the property of Toei, Saban and Bandai. I've simply distorted them for my own evilishly evil designs, (bwa ha ha ha haaa! Ahem.) Also, this fic is AU, so be warned. I hope peeps like it. I like it, but then, I'm slightly biased, aren't I?  
  
*Sorry I took so long to update, but I've had my plate full with another X-Men:Evo fic I've been writing (378 pages and counting now) Plus a little thing called exams. I don't know if anyone actually read this project when I first uploaded it, since there were no reviews to speak of. I'm not even sure if people will deign to read it now, but I'll post it anyway, because it's only hanging around my hard-drive gathering dust otherwise.*  
___________________  
  
July 2002  
___________________  
  
"Fate and Destiny" By Scribbler  
Chapter Two ~ "When An Ally Is Found"  
___________________  
  
"Advice is like snow; the softer it falls the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into the mind." -- Samuel Taylor Coleridge  
___________________  
  
  
Izzy ran along the corridor, feet slapping wetly on the shabby tiles. His breath came in short gasps, and his red hair was plastered to his head like a slick skullcap, dyed black by the water copiously impregnating it. With a slight skid he rounded the corner, nearly toppling over such was his alacrity, but righting himself and carrying swiftly on before his slender body had chance to overbalance. A single word reverberated inside his mind like a knell as he urged his legs to go ever faster along the stark school hallway.  
  
Damn.  
  
Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.  
  
He was late. That meant the cane for sure, and Beastly Beesly had a penchant for making an example of Izzy in front of the rest of the class - much to his contemporaries' delight and entertainment. Usually it was because of the lack of parental-notage concerning his abundant illegal absences, but the youth suspected that tardiness would receive much the same punishment.  
  
Izzy slewed to a halt, his unwieldy backpack knocking against his spine in the process. He winced vaguely at the short stab of pain, but was more concerned with what lay beyond the mock-wooden door before him. Taking a quick breath for composure, the slim boy slid the door open, peeking dubiously into the room and awaiting the verbal onslaught he felt sure must come.  
  
Yet his ears remained unassaulted, and Izzy stared into the classroom with ill-concealed disbelief written plainly across his tired features.   
  
Instead of the round face and bushy orange moustache of Mr. Beesly, his usual English teacher, Izzy found himself looking at a quite different visage. A youngish man stood at the front of the room next to the chalkboard, hand raised as if he'd been just about to write something with the white stick clasped between his willowy fingers, but been brought to cessation rather abruptly. Two blue eyes gazed at the panting boy standing in the gaping entrance from a canvas of tanned skin set beneath a mop of short spiky brown hair. The young man smiled, an action that caused several laughter lines to appear alongside his dazzling cerulean orbs.  
  
"Good morning, Mr. Izumi. Raining, was it?"  
  
Izzy just gaped. Where were the harsh admonitions? Where was the order to stand at the front of the class and hold out his palm? Where was the cane? Where was Mr Beesly, for that matter?  
  
As if reading his thoughts, the smiling figure continued in a husky, rather soothing voice.   
  
"Mr. Beesly's sick, I'm afraid, so I'll be taking your classes until his return. I hope that isn't a problem, Mr. Izumi?"  
  
"N... no." Izzy stuttered. Beastly Beesly, sick? But that man had the constitution of a carthorse! He leaned on the swinging door dumbly, awaiting the command to come forward and receive his strokes for being late.  
  
But the cheerful man simply cocked his head at the breathless pupil, a thoughtful expression present in those sparkling azure eyes.  
  
"Are you coming in?" He asked mischievously, with a distinctly un-teacher-like edge to his tone. "Or do you prefer the doorway? You can listen to the lesson from out there if you wish, but I think you'll have problems when it comes to taking notes."  
  
Jolted from his stupor, Izzy hurriedly entered the room, closing the door with a hollow click behind him. Many pairs of eyes watched as he tentatively made his way to his accustomed seat at the back of the room, silently anticipating - as was he - the decree to stop, turn around and be reprimanded for his belatedness.   
  
Yet no such order was forthcoming, and the red haired youth sat down in his chair quietly and discreetly, until finally one of the boys near him could bear it no longer.  
  
"Aren't you going to punish him?" The portly teenager cried indignantly, his voice harsh and incensed. Izzy cowered in his place, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.  
  
"Now why would I want to do that?" asked the teacher innocently.  
  
"He was late!" The youth stated, jowls wobbling as he broadcast his infuriated feelings. The man nodded, but made no move to recall Izzy.  
  
"I hardly think a little tardiness is worthy of punishment, especially not the kind I think you're insinuating. Mr Izumi appears to have forgotten his umbrella, so I think the weather has reprimanded him quite enough, don't you?"   
  
"No." Grumbled the boy, sinking back down onto his bountiful rolls of flesh. "I don't."  
  
The youthful educator, who seemed very unconcerned about the whole thing except at its possibility as a source of amusement, nodded with pseudo-gravity, a spark of mischief still dancing in his uncanny blue eyes.  
  
"Very well then. Mr. Izumi, you will stay behind after school today and clean this chalkboard for me. There now, all settled. Now I'll go back to the lesson, if you don't mind." He swivelled round to face the pitch slab hung upon the flaking wall, raising one graceful hand once more to continue.  
  
"That's not a real punishment." The boy adjacent to Izzy groused rebelliously to himself, unwilling to raise his voice and take on the teacher's decision head-to-head.   
  
The entire congregation of youngsters murmured their disapproval of the lenient - by their standards - chastisement, and this maintained throughout the session as they protested amongst themselves the loss of their favoured sport and entertainment.  
  
For his part, Izzy was as stunned as the rest of them. Never before had he gotten away from a crime without at least five strokes of the beloved cane Beastly Beesly kept in a case in his desk drawer. As if in memory of its previous whippings, his palms began to burn with residual agony at the thought of that thin wood slicing across his raw flesh. He shifted uncomfortably, pushing the unwanted memories away, whilst at the same time shooting several glances around him to gauge his classmates' reactions to this unexpected turn of events. They were not altogether encouraging, and the outcast youth collected many dirty looks that promised isolation and mental punishment later on if he wasn't careful. He noted their faces, tucking away the memorandum to avoid them in his mind, before turning his attention back to the class, and it's unorthodox teacher.  
  
Izzy contemplated the youngish man whilst he scribbled down what was written on the board into his battered notebook, crisp and dried out in places where it had been carelessly thrown into a puddle not long ago. Mr. Hogan had joined Odaiba High in September with the start of the new term, about the same time Izzy did. However, unlike Izzy, the young lecturer hadn't had any trouble settling down. His handsome appearance had made him a hit with almost all the girls, and additionally his easygoing manner had won over the majority of the boys too. With a well-timed word and flash of his startling blue eyes, Mr. Hogan could retrieve himself from any sticky situation with ease - whether dealing with faculty or students alike.  
  
The remainder of the lesson passed in a blur. Mr. Hogan was primarily a science teacher, but judging by the plentiful notes he'd accumulated, Izzy ascertained that he was also well trained in literature too. When the bell rang, it seemed as if only a few minutes had passed since he staggered in through the door, such was the interest the spiky haired tutor had created in what had previously been dusty and yawn-inducing subject matter.   
  
The unusual educator darted a knowing grin in Izzy's direction as the boy dutifully filed out of the classroom, struggling slightly as he was roughly jostled whilst attempting to fasten the zipper on his bag.  
  
"Don't forget, Mr. Izumi. After school, this chalkboard and you have a date, and I think she'll be very disappointed and hurt if you stand her up."  
  
The adolescent simply gave a wan smile, before bolting down the rapidly filling hallway ahead of his rather hostile contemporaries. Mr. Hogan watched him go with interest. In the back of his astute mind something stirred faintly. There was something about that boy. Something particular. Yet, for the life of him, he couldn't work out what it was. Sighing resignedly, the young-looking man gathered his papers and set off back towards his laboratory on the other side of the school. He hadn't originally wanted to leave his beloved science block and cover Beesly's lesson, but now he was glad he had. The extra effort it cost him to return in time for his next class had been worth it, if only to stir his curiosity. Perhaps....   
  
But the train of thought was cut off before it could fully bloom by a pair of students who suddenly decided that now was a good time to start a fight. Mr. Hogan soon became embroiled in breaking up the ensuing tussle, all thoughts of Izzy Izumi driven from his gifted cranium with the flailing of fists and traded curses turning the air a spectacular shade of blue around him.  
___________________  
  
The school seemed quiet without any pupils in it. Silence itself echoed down the austere hallways and reverberated off the walls, twisting quiescent fingers into every nook and cranny it could find and making the structure its own. Diaphanous tendrils swept down the passages in a tide of pure, unadulterated hush, their only accompaniment memories of bustling times long past.  
  
A sudden clanking perforated the all-consuming stillness, as a short figure carrying an ancient metal bucket hove into view down the vacant corridor. Water sloshed out of the archaic container, leaving a trail of soapsuds and frothy liquid behind it as the slender individual struggled to transport the unwieldy coffer to its destination. He stopped at the wooden door leading into a classroom, readjusting his load and turning to push the door open with his back. Footsteps resonating hollowly as he crossed the threshold in reverse, clutching the dented pail with some difficulty to his chest.  
  
Izzy swung round and gratefully set his burden down on the floor. Slender fingers flexed with relief, appreciative to have been relieved of their antediluvian yoke at last. A small sigh escaped his lips, and he dumbly set about the task he'd been set that morning. Dipping a half-disintegrated rag - the only thing he'd been able to find in the caretaker's cupboard that even remotely qualified as a sponge - into the tepid, lathery water, he slapped it against the chalkboard and began to vigorously clean it. The red haired boy had a sneaking suspicion that his classmates, deprived of their usual sport, had been responsible for the complete absence of cleaning materials in the storeroom save for this cloth and the antique bucket now dribbling its contents onto the floor tiles. Not that he really cared. This was peanuts compared to some of the things that had happened to him during the course of his didactic career.   
  
The rag beneath his fingers squeaked as it was dragged across the pitch surface of the board, leaving a wet track behind it. Izzy bent down and immersed it again, wringing out the superfluous fluid before once more continuing with his chore. At least this was better then a caning. He could understand why the government had reintroduced its practice, but he suspected that none of them had been alive when it was last in place, and had never experienced the stinging sensation of rattan across bare skin.  
  
A dull click and faint displacement of air blowing against the back of Izzy's neck signalled that the door to the room had just been opened. An accompaniment of the distinct tapping of shoes also indicated that a person had come in. Izzy swivelled round to see Mr. Hogan striding into the classroom, briefcase in hand and that ever-present mischievous grin grafted to his tanned face. If possible, his smile became even wider as he saw the boy obediently employed in washing the chalkboard.  
  
"Ah, Mr. Izumi. Glad to see you." He speedily crossed the room to the desk in the corner, glancing back to throw a careless comment over his shoulder. "I'm not checking up on you, I just forgot a few files when I took your class today. I won't be moment, I promise."  
  
Izzy watched, and true to his word, the willowy man scooped up a folder from off the counter and proceeded to stuff it into his already bulging attaché case. The folder, however, had other ideas, and flatly refused to fit. Izzy looked on with quiet amusement as the teacher tried in vain to force it in, eventually relinquishing the endeavour and flipping the case shut again, whilst positioning the errant file in the crook of his other arm. He turned, catching the youth's eye.  
  
"Too much work and not enough space, I'm afraid. Apparently you can't be hard-working and modish at the same time when you're a teacher."  
  
Izzy gave a half-hearted smile at the joke. A trickle of water made its damp way down his wrist, and he shook it off ahead of dousing the rag again.   
  
Mr. Hogan quirked an eyebrow at the curious youth before him. It was true - he hadn't been planning to check up on Izzy's punishment. For some strange reason, unlike with any of the other pupils, he trusted this boy to carry it out without supervision, despite the fact that he had no concrete evidence to suggest this. There was just something about the boy, some mysterious aura that demanded immediate trust and confidence. Mr. Hogan shook his spiky haired head; he was getting soft in the brain. And yet.... it was hard to deny that there *was* something unusual about Izzy Izumi. Something that set him apart from the rest of his classmates, regardless of the fact that he consciously avoided drawing attention to himself at all costs.  
  
For his part, Izzy circumvented looking at the teacher, who - despite having done what he came to do in the room - seemed reluctant to leave. The reticent youth quietly wiped the chalkboard, making no attempt to initiate conversation. Why didn't he go away? Did he enjoy watching a punishment in action? No, Mr. Hogan wasn't like that. He wasn't like Beastly Beesly; else he would've caned his charge in the lesson in full view of everybody. Still, that didn't explain why the man was still there, scrutinizing him like one of his numerous laboratory experiments.  
  
Eventually, after several minutes of this, Mr. Hogan broke the uncomfortable silence with his husky baritone.   
  
"You're not like other kids, are you?"  
  
Izzy looked up, startled. What had prompted such an atypical comment? He stuttered for a moment, not quite sure how to answer.  
  
"I... I don't know what you mean, Mr. Hogan, sir."  
  
The elder male waved his hand dismissively, momentarily distracted from what he was saying. "Don't bother with the whole 'sir' thing, you make me feel old. What I mean is, you don't act like other kids your age."  
  
Izzy simply stared at him. What were you supposed to say to something like that? Mr. Hogan placed his briefcase and folder down on the desk, before perching himself deftly on the corner. He gazed at the boy, blue eyes filled with curiosity.  
  
"I'm sure you think I'm strange asking you a question like that." He chuckled. "It's just that.... well, you just seem quite over-mature for your age. How old are you, Izzy?"  
  
Momentarily startled but the familiar use of his first name - teachers aren't meant to be friendly, are they? - Izzy verbally stumbled.  
  
"I.... sixteen, si- Mr. Hogan."  
  
The tutor nodded sagely. "And yet you act more like an adult than I do. Not that that's a difficult feat." He swung his legs up to sit Indian-style on the bureau. Izzy practically gaped at the conspicuously un-teacher-like action, noting absent-mindedly how ridiculous it looked for someone in a navy suit and red tie to be balanced on the edge of a desk like a naughty schoolboy.  
  
He was snapped from his thoughts when Mr. Hogan spoke again.  
  
"I don't mean to pry, and you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but you don't seem to connect very well with the rest of your contemporaries, and I was wondering if I could help. Tell me, Izzy, when was the last time you went out with your friends?"  
  
Izzy's dark eyes slid to the floor, and he self-consciously shuffled from foot to foot, all thoughts of cleaning the chalkboard driven from his mind by the well meaning, but rather indiscreet science teacher.   
  
Mr. Hogan gazed at the uncomfortable youth, wondering after the cause of his caginess. Then it hit him, and he mentally slapped himself at his tactlessness. The boy didn't go out, because he didn't have any friends.  
  
"I'm sorry." The willowy man apologised hastily. "I didn't mean to - "  
  
"No, it's OK." Izzy cut him off. "You didn't mean any harm, it's just.... it's a sore topic, is all."  
  
I can imagine, mused the teacher. Poor boy, just moved here and the kids won't even consider accepting him. Wonder why that is? What is it that they don't like about him?  
  
Izzy stared at his scuffed shoe as if it were the most riveting sight in the entire world. He wasn't used to people asking him things like this. He wasn't used to people even making the pretence of caring how he felt or what he thought about anything, much less apologising for hurting his feelings. Maybe.... maybe he could confide in Mr. Gennai, this man who breezed in ostensibly without a care in the world, the first person to treat him like human being and not just an extension of his parents.... or a target. Maybe....  
  
"I..." He began, and then stopped, irresolute. Was he making a mistake? Should he speak of such personal things aloud, or should he simply keep them inside, in that little alcove beside his heart where they'd always resided? The silence that followed his hesitant commencement was intense and all consuming, and crowded into his ears like a nauseating fog of timidity.   
  
Mr. Hogan watched him, willing the boy to speak what was obviously preying upon his mind.   
  
Eventually, the red haired youth heaved a great sigh, and appeared to have come to a decision in his mind. He kept staring at the floor, not meeting the tutor's eyes, and when at last he spoke, his voice was hoarse and soft.  
  
"I.... I don't know why people don't like me. It was the same at all my other schools - my parents, they move around a lot, you see. I'd turn up on the first day and hope that this time, it would be different. This time, I'd be accepted. But it never was, and they never did - accept me, that is." His words came in a mad rush, as if afraid that if they didn't exit his mouth as quickly as possible, then he would bite down on his tongue and prevent them from escaping at all. "I tried everything I could think of to get people to like me, but nothing worked. The kids all just saw me as some sort of target, and the teachers.... well, the teachers all seemed to think I was some punching bag they could vent their frustration on because there was never any comeback from me or my parents against them. My parents would move after a while - they always did in the end, but never because of me - and I'd switch to another new school, and the whole thing would be repeated over again."  
  
Mr. Hogan looked on in taciturn sympathy, quietly noting the boy's shuddering shoulders. It was obvious that he was trying to hold in tears - probably, this was the first time he'd vented these feelings to anyone. His parents didn't sound like the most communicative of people. The educator tentatively cleared his throat, unwilling to put his proverbial foot in his mouth again.  
  
"Have you spoken to your parents about this? Perhaps they could help."  
  
"Pah!" Izzy virtually spat, scornfulness clearly evident in his voice. "Like *they'd* listen to anything I said. Unless it's beneficial to either them or their new law firm, they just aren't interested. They never have been!"  
  
The passionate derision in his voice struck a chord in Mr. Hogan, and he sensed that there was some other reason behind its presence in the youth's tone than simply inattentive parents. A faint wisp of sensation stirred in the back of the man's incisive brain, calling to him in a near ethereal whisper, but he swiftly silenced it. No, he wouldn't deal with this in that manner. This required some basic level of human judgment - not exactly his forte, but he'd give it a go anyway.  
  
"You know, Izzy, you can always talk to me if people are bothering you at school. You don't have to suffer in silence if things are happening. It's not mandatory."  
  
Izzy raised his eyes, surprise at the kind gesture mixed with gratitude swirling in those twin dusky pools, so unused to this type of benevolence. He stared at the teacher for a moment, expression descending once more into the unreadable as their gazes met, until Mr. Hogan worried that he'd insulted him. However, these fears were quickly shelved when the corners of Izzy's mouth suddenly twitched and curled into a rarely seen, thankful smile.  
  
"Thanks." He said simply. "I appreciate it."  
  
Satisfied by this apparent success, but noting that Izzy seemed unwilling to talk more at present, Mr. Hogan hopped down off the desk. Gathering his things together and stacking them - albeit unsteadily - in his arms once more, he proceeded to head for the door. Izzy watched him for a moment, and then switched his attention back to the task at hand - namely, washing the black slate in front of him.  
  
However, as he reached the exit, the boyish teacher abruptly halted and turned back to the curious redhead. Izzy appeared unaware of this pause until he spoke, voice tinted with rarely seen wisdom and gravity.  
  
"You're special, you know. Unique. Never forget that, no matter what happens in the world around you. You're your own person, and you're special."  
  
Izzy's head jerked up at these words, but the unusual educationalist was already gone. Izzy stared at where he'd stood, pondering those parting sentiments. Him, special? Nobody had ever told him that before. Freakish, yes. Dangerous too. But special?  
  
For the second time in as many minutes, Izzy's face curled into a smile, and as he dunked the wet rag back into the soapy water, he decided that - despite his eccentricities - he liked Mr.Hogan.  
  
___________________  
  
It was already dark by the time Izzy finally got home. His punishment had meant he'd missed his usual bus, consequently missing the appropriate changes as well, forcing him onto a later vehicle, but causing him to be quite behind schedule in the process. As he made his way tiredly up the long driveway to Bluebird Hall, he sighed exhaustedly. It had been a rough day, although not as rough as it could have been, given the circumstances.  
  
The dilapidated house he called home loomed out of the darkness, tall and imposing. In the growing dusk it was hard to tell how run down the place actually was, and one could easily imagine it in all its former glory of days gone by as it hid its shabbiness in shadow. Izzy paused for a moment, his fertile imagination creating scenes of glamorous parties and gaudy decorations as he stared at the ragged structure. If he tried hard enough, he could almost see the twinkling lights and hear the joyful music of company filtering through the French windows and doors. Vaporous figures ostensibly floated past, making their way to a shindig that had long since ended.  
  
Izzy shook his head, a cold breeze buffeting his face and ruffling his unkempt hair. The unseasonable warmth of the day still hung thick in the air, but a biting chill had sprung up even as he hiked up the lengthy gravelled drive. It cut against his cheek like a knife, and the youth shivered before jerking up his collar and commencing his brief journey once more.  
  
But Izzy never made the short trip to his front door. As his feet crunched over the pebbly ground, he became aware of an odd noise. Footsteps - or rather, crunching that sounded distinctly like footsteps on gravel - coming from a few feet away. The redhead stopped, and the noise stopped also. He started off again, and sure enough, so did the anomalous sound. Izzy called over his shoulder to where he thought the footsteps emanated from.  
  
"Mom? Dad? Is that you?"  
  
No answer.  
  
His parents' cars stood parked in their usual positions up ahead, polished hides gleaming in the moonlight. They were home then, and inside, judging by the sliver of light leaking through the living-room curtains. But then, what was that strange crunching behind him?  
  
Over-active imagination creating grisly scenarios of muggers and murderers, Izzy quickened his step. His breathing also involuntarily accelerated, and thin chest constricting slightly as he strode purposefully towards his domicile. The boy forced himself not the look back, lest he see something he would rather not. Images flowed through his brain like an unchecked torrent, manifesting a core of fear in his stomach that only appears when one is alone in the dark with something unknown.  
  
He'd almost reached the roofed porch when it happened. Izzy stretched out with slender fingers for the door-handle, when suddenly he felt something strike the back of his head. Stars exploded inside his skull, and he stumbled backwards at the unforeseen blow. What the hell was that?  
  
Mind reeling, the intellectual youth was unexpectedly aware of two figures detaching themselves from the gloom. They were tall and well built, muscles patently obvious on their wide frames even in the murky dimness. Izzy staggered back a few steps, shaking his head to rid himself of the multitude of bright spots that now insisted on crowding into his vision.   
  
Loud roaring perforated his hearing, filling his ears until he believed his brain must burst from the sheer volume and intensity of it. He raised his hands and clapped them over the sides of his head, fruitlessly trying to stifle the thunderous clamour. He half expected to feel the sticky wetness of blood oozing from his lobes such was the unreserved concentration of his discomfort.  
  
A gruff voice filtered through the haziness and pounding of blood in Izzy's temples.  
  
"I thought you said one crack would knock 'im out!"  
  
"I was wrong then, wasn't I. Best give 'im another to lay 'im out cold. Careful - remember - he's one of them lot. We dunno what he c'n do."  
  
Them lot? Do? Izzy's mind whirled at these strange words spoken by alien voices. Who were these people? Why had they attacked him outside his own house in the middle of nowhere? What did they want with him?  
  
His head ached with these unanswered questions, and he lurched backwards, vaguely aware that he should try and get away from these assailants before they hurt him again. However, the ground suddenly seemed to be made out of rubber, and his woozy feet couldn't seem to get a good purchase. The boy tripped over his own legs, sprawling onto his spine with a faint 'oomph'. The world spun, a twirling myriad of stars and pitch night sky, which made him feel somewhat nauseous. A groan escaped his lips as the air was driven from his lungs, and he lay prone on the ground.  
  
A shadow fell across him, and one of the brusque voices cut through the cloying haze fast encircling his senses.  
  
"Apparently one good hit *was* all it took to lay 'im flat."  
  
"Don't speak too soon. Look, he's still awake." Cautioned the other voice.  
  
"Ah, they're not so tough. Dunno what we need to be so careful about. Watch this."  
  
Izzy was vaguely aware that his parents were within the house only a few feet away, probably beavering away on some lawsuit on their laptops. Why couldn't they hear what was going on outside? The rushing blood in his ears made it difficult for him to tell just how loud his attackers were being, but surely Mr. And Mrs. Izumi could discern the noise of their own son being tormented on the gravel of their driveway?  
  
The shadow spread across his face, followed by the indistinct form of a man leaning over him. Izzy couldn't move, couldn't get away. The obscure individual raised what could have been his arm above the boy's head, and then brought it swishing down in an incongruously graceful arc. Then there was only blackness.   
___________________  
  
*To Be Continued....* 


	3. Chapter Three When Questions Are Asked

DISCLAIMER AND LEGAL STUFF: Digimon: Digital Monsters and its universes are not mine; they are the property of Toei, Saban and Bandai. I've simply distorted them for my own evilishly evil designs, (bwa ha ha ha haaa! Ahem.) Also, this fic is AU, so be warned. I hope peeps like it. I like it, but then, I'm slightly biased, aren't I?  
  
  
___________________  
  
  
February 2003  
  
___________________  
  
  
"Fate and Destiny" By Scribbler  
Chapter Three ~ "When Questions Are Asked"  
  
___________________  
  
  
"Question everything. Learn something. Answer nothing." -- Engineer's Motto  
  
___________________  
  
  
A grey mist rolled across the landscape. Thick and nebulous, it enveloped everything in its path. Light and dark were one and the same behind this dense, indefinable fog. All it touched became naught but hazy, vague shapes - some recognisable, others totally alien to anything conceivable by mere human imagine.  
  
There was nothing but fog. It swathed everything. It *was* everything. The entire universe was nothing but an opaque, dreary miasma....  
  
//I'm coming//  
  
What was that? A voice?  
  
//I'm coming//  
  
It *was* a voice. Disconnected and androgynous, yet close at hand all the same. But how could a voice be here? How could he hear it through this cloying mist?  
  
//Don't give up hope//  
  
Unfamiliar. Strange. Who was it?  
  
//Never lose hope//  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
//You know//  
  
"I know you? How? Where am I? What is this place?"  
  
//Help approaches....//  
  
"Please, tell me. Who are you?"  
  
//You know.... inside//  
  
It was fading. Waning away into soft nothingness. Then, he was falling. Panic! He didn't want to fall! He wanted that strange, sweet voice to speak more. To whisper gentle utterances of comfort into his diaphanous ear for eternity and longer.  
  
"Wait! Come back! Don't leave me here, please. I have to know!" He yelled desperately.   
  
//But.... you already know.... inside//  
  
Falling, falling, into the abyss, where no light ever shines and nothing can ever live. Down, down into the dark void that swallows souls ripped from their earthly bodies like some hellish beast of legend.  
  
"Please...."  
___________________  
  
Izzy returned to consciousness with a groan. His body ached all over, but especially in the little hollow at the base of his skull. Invisible needles lanced through his nervous system as he twitched his head in response to the pain, and he immediately froze lest he cause himself more damage that way.  
  
Memories floated haphazardly around his fuggy brain, still disorientated from its induced slumber, and the boy struggled to latch onto one of them. Images of laying on his back whilst looking up at the starry night sky filled his mind, then darkness as intense pain flared inside his cranium from.... from.... a blow. A hit on his head. Recollections peppered his muddled psyche in no distinguishable order, and Izzy strained to understand at least some of what he saw, with little discernable success.  
  
Relinquishing his throbbing and disorderly memories for a moment, Izzy decided to take stock of his current predicament instead. He was lying on his back again, that much was certain even with his eyes closed, yet he had the distinct impression that he wasn't lying *down* as such, just.... lying. Cool steel pressed against his spine, and the red haired youth realised with a jolt that he had no shirt on. The air hung unpleasantly cold around him, giving rise to quivering gooseflesh along his arms. Izzy attempted to wrap his stiff upper limbs around his body to preserve some semblance of warmth, but his arms refused to cooperate, remaining forcibly where they were - stretched out above his head - wrists touching strange metal manacles when he tried to lift them. With an odd sinking feeling deep in his gut Izzy attempted the same manoeuvre with his legs, achieving much the same result. A pair of metal cuffs adorned his ankles, and two more around his waist and neck completed the outlandish set of jewellery, essentially pinning him to the flat surface his skin was now pressed against.  
  
All this he gleaned from touch alone, still too disorientated to open his eyes. A faint swish abruptly hummed through the static space, followed by hollow tapping like heels on metal flooring. The sinking feeling transformed into a sizable lump of dread, and Izzy at last forced his aching eyelids open.   
  
At once, his pupils were assaulted with a flash of light so bright that he was blinded for several seconds and couldn't be sure whether he'd shut his eyes again. Gradually, though, this sightlessness resided, leaving only greenish spots, which danced across his vision like unruly fireflies trapped within his pounding eyeballs. Izzy blinked several times, but these lucid artistes refused to dissipate from their preferred stage.  
  
A harsh sound suddenly cut through the air, eliciting a change in the atmosphere to one of palpable trepidation as it echoed off the - presumably metal - walls. Caught somewhere between a laugh and a growl, the noise ricocheted into the boy's ears and resonated around the inside of his brain like a bullet, which didn't help his aching skull one little bit.  
  
The tapping drew closer, and then halted a few feet away. Through the fog of glowing dots Izzy distinguished a pair of feet in his peripheral vision. Feet clad in smart black shoes - designer probably. They stood apart at an angle which immediately denoted the confidence of the owner's stance, and the dark-eyed youth raised his rapidly clearing gaze to look upon the proprietor of this fashionable footwear.  
  
His line of sight slowly travelled up the acutely creased dark trousers, noting the well-ironed white lab coat that hung from the newcomer's gaunt frame. A scientist then, or someone to that effect. The coat was buttoned at the chest, which itself was wide and bordered by broad shoulders. The newcomer's hands were thrust deep into the coat's pockets, and his thick neck rose confidently from out of the pale collar. Izzy raised his sight once more, and found himself staring into eyes as dark as his own - which was unusual since his eye-colour was the result of an irreversible genetic defect that made the irises exactly the same colour as the pupils. His parents had taken him for many tests when he was younger to correct this imperfection, but the doctors hadn't been able to do a thing without perhaps blinding him. Cosmetic surgery had improved over the years, but not by that much.  
  
The eyes Izzy now gazed into - albeit rather dazedly - were as black as black could be, and set in leathery skin of a ghastly grey pallor. Lengthy locks of equally black hair framed this ashen face, several long strands residing idly across the wan pelt as if blown there by a gentle breeze, despite the fact that there was no draught anywhere in this stark room. Izzy watched as the slit-like mouth curled into a smile, and the same tainted noise rang out again from his lips. The individual was chuckling, but to the squirming boy it seemed as if his very eardrums were being beaten with a pickaxe covered in sharp porcupine needles. He wriggled ineffectively against his stern bonds.  
  
The voice ceased its horrific giggling, and for a few precious seconds silence reigned. Then the tall man in the white coat broke the refreshing quiescence and spoke. His voice was like brittle leaves on an Autumn zephyr, yet tinged with a profundity and depth that made him seem more tangible than those insubstantial wisps of nature could ever be.  
  
"Awake now?"   
  
It was a rhetorical question, but Izzy couldn't have answered even if he'd wanted to. His tongue felt fuzzy and thick against the roof of his mouth, and flopped about like a beached whale rather than do what he asked it to, so instead, he simply stared at the anomalous looking man who smiled and yet made him feel so uncomfortable. The red haired youth wished that he could turn away from that penetrating gaze, but his body was locked into position against what he now realised was a vertical metal table of some description, and his only solace was that he could avert his eyes.  
  
This seemed to amuse the man, and a short burst of harsh laughter exited his mouth before he barked out ostentatiously; "Is it the one?"  
  
Another, shorter man who Izzy hadn't noticed before, disconnected himself from the shadows of a computer terminal on the far side of what the boy now perceived to be a spacious, clinical room almost entirely made from metal. The walls, the floor, even the ceiling were all, if not constructed from it, then at least coated in strange alloys whose constitutions were undecipherable by sight alone. This other man also bore a white lab coat, although his was unbuttoned to reveal a red-checked shirt and faded jeans - not what one would expect a scientist to wear. His fair head was bent over a computer printout clutched in his hands, and he answered without looking up.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Wonderful."  
  
Izzy's foggy brain struggled to comprehend what they were saying, but their dialogue was so sparse he had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. One thing was clear, however. These were the people who'd - although not themselves physically - kidnapped him and brought him to this strange place. The red haired youth forced his rebellious tongue to respond, and half grated, half coughed the words burning inside his fervent mind.  
  
"Wha.... what's going on?"   
  
The taller man turned to face him, a cruel smile hovering about his thin lips.  
  
"It can talk already? Quite a little trooper, I gave it enough sedative to lay out an elephant for a week."  
  
'It'? Why did the man call him 'it'?  
  
"Brain activity's increasing by the second." The checked-shirt guy stated, peering closely at his readout. "According to these readings, it should be fully conscious and functional in about twenty minutes. Until then it'll be a little woozy, so be warned."  
  
'It' again? What was he, a piece of meat? Why didn't they answer him? Izzy compelled his tongue to obey him once more.  
  
"Where am ....:: cough ::.... I?"  
  
The lofty man finally addressed his captive, voice stately and bass as it boomed from his throat. "Where? Why, home of course."  
  
"Home?" Izzy repeated, not quite understanding what he heard. This wasn't his home; he'd been stolen from outside his home. Or at least his present residence at any rate. His questions were silenced, however, when the man added a careless comment that gave founding to several more muted queries.  
  
"Well, your place of birth, anyway."  
  
"This is a... a hospital?"  
  
This elicited another surge of laughter. "I suppose you could look at it that way. But we're so much more than a simple hospital. We rebuild broken lives as well as broken bodies, you see. Miracle-makers, that's what they call us."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
"No, well, you wouldn't, would you." The expression on the man's face twisted into a wry sneer. "You haven't been here for so long. It took us quite a while to track you down, actually, thanks to that fool. He messed up everything, but we'll soon set things right, especially since you're back in the fold now."  
  
Izzy hardly understood a word of what was said. At least, he understood them, but their deeper meaning was lost on him. Messed up everything? Back in the fold? Track him down? The knot of dread tightened in his gut, and his throat began to constrict slightly as panic slowly seeped unbidden into his system. Who was this strange man, and what was this place he'd supposedly been born in? He wanted answers, but at the same time, he shrank from what he might learn should he receive them. Finally, beating down the feeling of foreboding, Izzy opened his mouth again and squeezed out what he wished to know.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
"You don't know?" came the incredulous reply. "I must have done a better job hiding myself from the media then I thought. But why do you wish to know *my* identity? You'd be better off asking yourself about your own."  
  
"My.... my own?"  
  
"Yes." Those black eyes sparkled callously in the company of withheld knowledge, which Izzy so desperately sought to possess. "You think of yourself as the boy known as Izzy Izumi, don't you. But what if I was to tell you that you're not him, that you've been deceived all your life? What if I were to say that you don't really exist at all?"  
  
Izzy simply gawped for a moment. Didn't exist? But how....? He found his tongue. "That's absurd! Of course I exist, I'm right here, living and breathing!"  
  
"True, you exist in that sense," the man acknowledged with a curt nod, "But officially, you were never born."  
  
"What?" exploded Izzy, immediately regretting the outburst as it caused his head to spin. Never born? But.... but that was impossible! He had a birthday, and knew the very hospital where he'd entered into the world sixteen years ago!   
  
"If you'd ever investigated, you'd have found that there is no record of an Izzy Izumi at the medical institute you were told of," the man went on, seemingly uncaring about the veritable bombshell he'd just dropped on the red haired boy's world.  
  
The fuzziness in Izzy's psyche prevented him from thinking clearly, and in its befuddled state; his mind clamped onto this titbit of information and held it fast until it echoed like a knell around his cranium. Never been born. He'd never been born? But then, how....? An idea niggled at the back of his brain, and he reluctantly recognized its cries. It couldn't be, could it? All those rumours, all those stories, could they hold a core of truth after all? Was this place....? Was this man before him....?  
  
Dubiously, yet with a growing suspicion embedded deep in his stomach, Izzy wheezed only two words. "Oikawa Monato?"  
  
"So you *do* recognise me?" the longhaired man riposted, ostensibly enjoying the youth's patent distress. Izzy's mind reeled at this flippant confirmation.  
  
"Then this is.... MRC Headquarters." It was a statement, not a question, but the tall man now identified as the mysterious Doctor Oikawa Monato, director of MRC himself, supplied further commentary anyway.  
  
"Yes, little one. This *is* Headquarters, and this *is* the site of your creation."  
  
Creation? Didn't he mean birth? Izzy struggled to come to terms with what he was hearing. There had been so many rumours concerning the research giant that he'd lost track of which were fact and which were just idle gossip. Tales of genetically manufactured monsters coupled with breaking medical research swarmed through his brain leaving a trail of disrupted thought in their wake until, finally, in his already confused condition, Izzy's usually incisive mind simply gave up trying to grasp these images and his head flopped forward onto his bare chest.   
  
"Did you get the sample?" Oikawa swivelled his attention back to his contemporary.  
  
"Several," the fair-headed man replied. "It's quite a specimen. Output was off the chart even when it was unconscious, and the blood tests looked promising."  
  
"But did you get enough? Can we continue with the next stage?" Oikawa's tone had switched to one of exigency, blatantly obvious beneath his cool exterior.  
  
"Only a few more samples, that should be enough to grow new cells and still have some tissue left over for back-up. Then you can go onto the specimen-anatomy-analysis level."  
  
"Good. We're making progress. This is long overdue, it was never meant to mature at all. Dissection was supposed to occur immediately after manufacture. Things would have been so much easier then, but that idiot had to go and mess things up! Still, I suppose we'll have to make do."  
  
Izzy's brain was bleary, but not completely shut down, and it locked onto one utterance like a homing missile. Dissection? Didn't that mean....? Oh God, they wanted to cut him open to see what made him tick!  
  
Part of his brain lurched up a feeble argument against this information. They couldn't do that, he was a human being, he had rights, to do that they'd have to.... to.... to kill him ....  
  
To do that.... they'd have to kill him.  
  
Kill him.  
  
They were going to kill him.  
  
A faint tingling set up in the back of Izzy's mind as this sentence sank in. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him, it seemed to whisper, whirling around his psyche like some deranged mantra. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. It covered his wits and tried to pull him under into its eddying current of panic.  
  
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.  
  
They were going to murder him. In cold blood, slice him open and lay his internal organs for the world to see.  
  
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.  
  
The back of Izzy's cranium began to prickle slightly as he mentally yanked himself from the sticky tar this panic was encasing him in, but the trickle was fast becoming a deluge, and even his usual common sense - hindered by the wooziness already affecting his thinking - wasn't enough to extricate him from this hideous mental gloop.  
  
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.  
  
He needed to get out of here, away from this place where truths and lies were spun together into an impenetrable mesh that enveloped his being and suffocated his thoughts.  
  
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.  
  
The tingling in his brain increased, he could almost *feel* the mesh wrapping around his head like a tangible net, garrotting him until he could barely breathe. Strands of fear laced across his throat, constricting the airway until his breath came in short, sharp gasps that heaved his ribcage and hurt his chest.   
  
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.  
  
He could nearly *touch* the net encasing his head and filling his psyche with nothing but horror at the designs Oikawa and his associate had on him.   
  
No, not on him, just on his body. His dead body.  
  
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.  
  
No! The tingling in Izzy's brain increased slightly as his sentience made one last desperate attempt to escape the cloying lattice threatening to overtake him completely. It couldn't end like this. He wouldn't let it end like this! How dare these people decide his future for him! Who were they to determine when his existence should end? Who were they to mete out life and death?  
  
Slender fibres of the youth's belligerent consciousness began to force their way through the harsh mesh around his wits, stretching slim diaphanous fingers through their invisible prison until a small hole appeared in the blind fear sheathing his soul.  
  
And through this hole, Izzy screamed.  
  
His mind shrieked, screeched its terror in a bold, indiscernible wave. Mixed with this came its struggles to meet with the other part of his brain, to unite with his intelligence and formulate a plan of action to remove him from this unspeakable place. To leave this supposed site of his formation.  
  
Izzy was barely aware of his physical body; such was the turmoil raging within his skull. Yet vague sounds still perforated his mental battle. Voices, high and indistinct, tinctured with their own brand of panic.  
  
"Sir, look! The readings! They're.... they're going haywire!"  
  
"What? But how can that be?"  
  
"I don't know, sir. But if we don't do something fast - "  
  
"Damn! It must've progressed more then we realised as it matured! Quick, prepare a sedative!"  
  
Muffled noises. Izzy ignored them, concentrating on the mêlée within, until a sharp prick in his arm alerted his floundering attention to the outside world once more. Quickly, a burning sensation crept up his constrained limb, spreading throughout his body and forcing him back into the psychological stupor he fought so hard to flee from. No! He couldn't go back! He wouldn't go back! To go back was to return to a slumber from which there was no waking. A sleep those people would take advantage of, and slit his gizzard as he lay helpless before them!  
  
But the drug injected into his bloodstream completed its job with infallible precision, and there was nothing the red haired teenager could do prevent it short of stopping his own life-juice from flowing around his veins. Listlessly, pallid eyelids dragged darkness down over his fearful eyes, sheltering those staring irises with pale flaps of corporeal siesta. He was going under, surrendering under duress into an unnatural oblivion, and there wasn't anything he could do about it.... nothing.... nothing at all....  
  
Slowly, even the hazy sounds of the world started to fade, and Izzy found himself floating on an ocean of induced sleep, half in and half out of the reality as the invading linctus dug its way into every last chink of being it could reach.   
  
The waning boy couldn't see it, but in front of him, Oikawa was smiling. The self-satisfied smile that has graced the features of both tyrants and geniuses since the dawn of society itself. The same smile that always accompanies the prospect of new knowledge and challenges overcome. The smile that is not truly a smile at all.   
  
Oikawa turned to his fair-haired companion, long hair swishing loudly in the silence and a victorious comment poised upon his emaciated lips. Triumph oozed from every pore of his ashen skin, and he opened his mouth to voice the penultimate order on his specimen's existence.   
  
Suddenly, in a flash of blinding iridescence, the studded metal door to the stark room quite literally exploded. With a creak of rending steel, this metallic behemoth - specially designed to keep everyone and everything out unless specifically allowed to enter - blew off its enforced hinges and flew across the room with all the resistance of a feather to strike against the wall in a shower of glittering sparks. Both men whirled around, only to find themselves choking on a cloud of smoke that billowed into the space through the roughly hewn aperture. Swells of greyish smog leaked through the door, catching in the throats of all who inhaled it and causing coughing fits to inadvertently wrack their bodies.  
  
As the pair of scientists laboured for breath, a figure stepped into the room. A tall individual clad from head to toe in black fabric reminiscent of ninjas of old, barely a sliver of skin showing anywhere. This person glanced fleetingly at the two men gasping in front of it, before sliding its eyes - hidden behind a thin film of gauze - over the computer terminal - damaged where the door had caught it - and across the smoky space to rest upon the vertical table on the far side of the room and its unconscious bounty. For a moment it cocked its head, as if listening to something nobody else could hear. Then, without further hesitation, it sprang forward, leaping past the wheezing form of the blonde assistant to land, cat like, next to the trussed red haired boy.  
  
Whipping a small, almost key-like object from its belt, the mysterious character proceeded to insert it into the small control panel erstwhile concealed behind the perpendicular metal slab. Its gloved hand jerked once and retracted this miniscule tool. A short burst of flickering sparkles followed, incongruously pretty in the smoke-filled laboratory, and with a hollow clack each and every metal loop holding Izzy's body captive abruptly swung open. Released from his incarceration, yet once again subject to the whims of gravity, Izzy toppled forward - straight into the arms of the inexplicable stranger. Strong limbs gathered up the incapacitated youth, and the clandestine figure turned to bound across the room once more, ostensibly having retrieved what it came to that place for.  
  
Halfway across the room, however, the pair of escapees were halted as a stalwart hand suddenly emerged as if from nowhere and ensnared the stranger's slim ankle in an iron-like grip. The dark figure stumbled slightly, swivelling its head round to fix its gaze on the pasty man holding it. Oikawa's expression was one of ill-concealed rage, and he positively growled like an infuriated beast at this unfamiliar person who dared to rob him of his prize.  
  
If the enigmatic individual was intimidated by the gasping scientist then it didn't show it. Instead, it kicked him away with a strength incongruous to its slender limbs, using the force of the blow to twirl round, yank out a round article from its belt and hurl it against the floor in one fluid, graceful movement. The object exploded upon contact, sending forth yet more plumes of greyish smoke to merge with those already present from its departed brother, and provide adequate cover for the stranger to escape with its accolade.   
  
Oikawa yelled his frustration and pain, clutching his forearm where the stranger's foot had struck him, and gagging somewhat on the curls of smog seeping into his mouth. Across the room, the blonde assistant wobbled upright and stood shakily among the clouds of haze. But instead of giving chase, he turned to the smashed computer. Beside the broken console sat a large red button - thankfully unharmed - and the fair-haired man brought his fist down hard on it. At once sirens began to blare, and all across the MRC nerve centre, a deep electronic voice boomed through the tannoy.  
  
"Intruder alert! Intruder Alert!"  
  
Everywhere, MRC employees immediately dropped what they were doing and sprang into action like a well-oiled machine. Exits were blocked and corridors filled as hundreds of loyal workers spewed out to dutifully catch the alien amongst them. Nobody knew quite who this person was, or how the trespasser had gained access to the highly guarded compound, but all united in their quest to find this interloper as quickly as possible.  
  
A multitude of voices clamoured the length of the narrow halls, but the stranger remained unfound, and after many minutes the search still continued, ostensibly ineffectively. Fruitlessly the employees searched, but when the mysterious gatecrasher nonetheless remained unfound, many murmurings commenced as to whether they'd failed in their task and he'd escaped, or whether this was merely a false alarm and there *was* no intruder.  
  
Yet in truth, their quarry was always close by. So close it was completely invisible. In all the commotion, a faint clanking above the heads of those fervent pursuers went completely unnoticed, lost amongst the racket. If any of them had thought to look up, they probably would have guessed at the refuge their prey had taken in its flight.  
  
Silent as the wind and twice as fast, Izzy's mysterious rescuer travelled with him through the ventilation system embedded in the ceiling. It was almost inhuman how speedily they travelled, and where there appeared to be no room to pass, the stranger somehow found a way through. In all probability, even if they had been detected by one of the flurrying hunters below, they could never have been caught anyway thanks to their incredible pace and apparently flawless sense of direction.  
  
Eventually they reached their intended destination. A roughly hewn aperture through both the side of the shaft and the brick wall beyond served as their exit, and a rope attached to the fringe of the self-made opening their escape route. With seamless grace and unfathomable suppleness in the enclosed space, the stranger heaved Izzy's unconscious body across its shoulders in a fireman's lift and grabbed the rope tightly in one hand. With a quick shove of its long legs they were launched out of the hole and into the open air beyond.  
  
Izzy had never been particularly fond of heights, so perhaps it was kinder that he couldn't see what was going on at that moment. From where the boy was perched, his closed eyes held a perfect view of the side of the wall his liberator now proceeded to stylishly abseil down - all twenty stories of it.   
  
But the stranger was undaunted, and in the blink of an eye the two had arrived at the bottom. The masked individual then showed a partiality for planning, as it whipped an insignificant cigarette lighter from that marvellous belt and ignited it beneath the rope. With a faint 'whoosh', the rope burst into flames as its kerosene-soaked hide caught fire.   
  
This burst of brightness obviously attracted attention very quickly, and a veritable army appeared on the scene in minutes. But when they did, all they found were the smouldering remains of their quarry's escape method. The gathered men and women exchanged puzzled glances, but the roar of an engine behind them signalled where the seemingly invisible pair had gone. The sight of a jaggedly snipped hole in the wire perimeter fence and a motorbike speeding away across the desolate tract surrounding the compound confirmed this suspicion, and as one, the assembled hunters let out a defeated sigh. They knew they couldn't hope to catch the duo on foot, and no doubt units were already being despatched to follow across the wasteland that stretched for miles in every direction.   
  
A single communal thought hung in the air - unvoiced yet loud enough in each person's mind to merit someone having shouted it. They had failed in their responsibility. The intruder had escaped.  
  
The crowd of beaten employees quietly filed back into the building, whilst nearby, several jeeps and other assorted vehicles were released from their garages to rocket away in chase of the prey their land-based counterparts had failed to apprehend and retrieve. No one spoke a word as they entered into their workplace, the warning siren still resounding ineffectually through the disheartened ambience.  
  
In the distance, the snarl of engines echoed across the barren landscape, and a nebulous dust cloud was the only indication that anything was abroad that night. Even as one watched, this too disappeared. Swallowed into the darkness to play out its drama unwatched by curious eyes.  
  
The siren at length ceased, the doors were closed, and all became silent once more.  
___________________  
  
*To Be Continued...* 


End file.
